


pretense never suited us

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Sex Pollen, Sharing a Bed, mention of abusive relationship, well more like cuddle pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drug that removes inhibitions has an unexpected effect on John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pretense never suited us

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to talktothesky, who beta'd, and to violentdaylight, who inspired me to finish this. <3

“Harold.”

Something subtly wrong about the sound of John’s voice made Harold frown. “Mr. Reese?” He had footage of him from the other screen, a security camera that he broke into while John staked out the warehouse their latest number owned. The group of drug dealers operating out of said warehouse, the ones that have been distributing the latest brand of often-fatal designer drugs, were lying around John in a moaning pile. There didn’t seem to be any more violence forthcoming from them, at least.

Then John raised his eyes unerringly at the camera. Harold could see the whites around his eyes. Worse, he could see the traces of white powder on John’s collar.

“I have to go.” John’s voice cracked on the last word.

“No.” The word came out of Harold’s mouth without his conscious volition, sharp as a cracked whip. “John, you will come here. Do you hear me?”

Before Harold’s eyes, John’s pupils grew wide and dark, until his eyes seemed completely black. He licked his lips. In a low voice, he said, “I hear you.”

“Good.” Harold refused to let his voice shake even a little bit. “Come over here. Right away.”

That smirk on John’s face was achingly familiar. “Sure thing, Harold.” Then he turned smartly and walked away, stepping right over one very unhappy drug dealer. Harold distantly hoped the man at least had the wisdom to learn the error of his ways.

Never mind. Right now, Harold had greater concerns.

The drug was called kashmere, which Harold deemed an insult to both the region and the fabric. It had a number of qualities in common with both THC and methamphetamines, the end result tended to leave people feeling - well, very good, as Harold understood it. But also invulnerable, and prone to pursuing whatever activities would make them feel even better. Sadly, those who used this drug were rarely fond of such things as, say, chess, or classic films.

Or perhaps Harold was underestimating the drug’s users. At any rate, their usual response was to turn to violence, crime, sex, and reckless behavior. They received this number shortly after failing to rescue a girl who thought she’d be able to fly, and just managing to save another girl from being raped by her boyfriend.

John Reese under the influence of this drug was not someone that Harold would in good conscience see loosed on the city. Whatever happened once John arrived, the damage would at least be– contained. Minimized.

At worst, the damage would be done to Harold, rather than to an unthinking innocent, or to John himself.

~~

John walked into the library as if drunk. Harold was still at his desk, dealing with frivolous things that could have waited. In all honesty, he’d been stalling, trying not to think of what would happen once John would arrive.

Physical violence had seemed unlikely. John used it, yes, with frightening casualness, but he never enjoyed it. There were few things in the library that most would consider exciting. That left….

Harold swallowed. That left sex.

John was closing in on him now, smiling. It was an honest, open smile, which made this a great deal worse.

Harold had no skill for acting. He considered and discarded as unlikely the notion that, on not having the response he’d hoped for, John would turn violent. That left two other, equally unpleasant options: that John would leave, to wreak damage on himself or others; or that John would not notice, or care, until he woke up next morning with a clear mental image of this night.

Things were what they were. Harold would take his chances, and hope tomorrow John would not remember too much. His voice was steady when he said, “Mr. Reese.”

“Harold,” John said, and collapsed at Harold’s feet. His knees hit the floor with a  _crack_  that had Harold wincing.

John didn’t appear to notice. He rested his cheek on Harold’s thigh, eyes closed. His face seemed the very image of contentment.

“At least let me get you a pillow,” Harold said despite himself.

John looked up at him. He was still smiling. “We could go to bed.” He made no effort to get up.

Harold considered. However much this position hurt John’s knees, it was unlikely to cause any more trauma than anything he might do to Harold in bed. He said, “So we could,” but laid his hands atop John’s shoulders.

John arched into the touch. Harold’s reach was limited, as was his range of movement; he patted John’s back ineffectually. John didn’t seem to mind. He slid his hands around Harold’s calves until he was hugging Harold’s legs, his upper back bent awkwardly over Harold’s lap.

He was going to have the world’s worst back ache in the morning, a subject about which Harold spoke with some regrettable authority. Still, that was the least of their concerns.

Touching John kept him happy. Harold continued doing so, and thanked whatever might listen for small mercies. John all but purred at any touch of Harold’s hands, but it was when Harold scratched gently at the place where his spine met the back of his skull that all the tension ran out of John’s muscles and he practically melted over Harold.

“I see,” Harold said, entertained despite himself. He was struck with such fondness for John, gratitude that it appeared he could keep him pacified for the length of this spell without resorting to anything either of them would regret.

Then John looked up at him through his eyelashes, and nuzzled at Harold’s crotch.

Before Harold could think of a response, though, John said, “Aw, no?” and lay back down, eyes shut. When Harold failed to get back to it right away, John placed Harold’s hand over his neck and pushed up into the touch like an insistent cat.

~~

With great effort, Harold’s eyelids slid open. He bit down on a groan. A night in his chair had not been kind to his body.

John was awake, though how Harold knew this, he couldn’t say. John’s body gave every impression of relaxation, the long shape of him sprawled at Harold’s feet like a bearskin carpet. His eyes were closed.

How he knew didn’t matter. “Help me up, please,” Harold said. John was on his feet at once, offering Harold a hand which he accepted gratefully. He pulled himself up with no small effort.

Now that John was upright, Harold could detect a fair amount of stiffness in him, as well. “A good soak would be just the thing,” Harold said. He had a safe house which would do wonderfully. He awkwardly made his way to the door, pausing when John made no sign of following him. “Are you coming, Mr. Reese?”

His words spurred John into action, following on Harold’s trail, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

~~

Not an hour later, they were in a penthouse apartment. “Take the first shower, please,” Harold said. He added, “No, I insist,” when John opened his mouth to protest. “I have some things to take care of first. Go ahead.”

John scowled at him, but took off his jacket and his shoes. He disappeared into the bathroom before Harold had finished setting his laptop up.

Ten minutes later, the delivery Harold had ordered arrived. Food, and some items that he thought will prove useful. He knocked on the bathroom door. “John? I’m leaving a change of clothes for you in the bedroom. I’ll be in the living room.”

Twenty minutes later, John stepped out of the bedroom clad in the navy silk pajamas Harold had got for him. Harold noted with pleasure that the outfit fit him well, appearing to be comfortable as well as aesthetically pleasant. He got to his own feet with some creaking. “I’ll go wash. There’s Thai in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

The bath was heaven. Harold closed his eyes and let go of his thoughts, one after another. The drug network, its financial foundation uprooted in the time John took in the shower, was gone now. The drug was out of John’s system with no harm done. They had received no number as yet today.

It was time for a rest, however brief.

Once his muscles were as loosened as they would be, Harold stepped out, dried himself and put on his own sleep clothes. They were somewhat worn, although still presentable. He touched the door to the living room, and hesitated.

He opened it. “John? Please come in.” Then he sat on the bed, and waited.

John’s face was set into the careless, affable expression John wore like a mask. He stood carefully just beside the door. “Did you need anything, Harold?”

Harold considered. “There isn’t anything I need, no. There is, however, something I want. Would you lie on the bed?”

For a moment, John was very, very still. Then he lay down beside Harold, face down, head pillowed on his hands. It was only due to very long familiarity that Harold could see the minute muscle twitches where John forced his body to relax.

Some explanation was perhaps due. Familiar frustration rose in Harold: with his own inarticulacy, in having to use words when actions should be self-explanatory. He stalled. “How much of last night do you remember?”

“All of it,” John said, curt.

Harold put his hand on John’s back. Yes, there it was, the tiniest movement betraying John’s wishes. It brought John closer to Harold, not farther away. That should speak for itself, surely, as did the fact that Harold engineered their present circumstances - a comfortable bed, comfortable clothes, away from work settings - to begin with.

The necessity of words, however, remained. Harold took a deep breath. “In light of recent events,” he said, “I have come to believe that we might both enjoy a certain amount of,” why was it so hard to say? “intimate contact. Of the nonsexual kind.”

John’s smirk was very nearly convincing. “Why, Harold,” he drawled. “No reason to stop there.”

“On the contrary,” Harold said. For once, the tiny tells that John wasn’t pleased by this line of conversation were reassuring. “I have no interest in sexual activity, therefore stopping there is not merely reasonable, but the only ethical course of action.” He shrugged stiffly. “Of course, if you wouldn’t like to, there would be no reason to go that far at all.”

That last part, if also necessary, was unkind of him. Poor John; he hated admitting to having needs. Harold could sympathize. Being human was a trial.

“Playing dirty, Harold,” John said, voice rough around the edges.

Harold shrugged uncomfortably. This conversation - if it could be called that - was painful, and he would happily spare them both the experience if he could. But how could he? He would remember how John looked on his knees, grateful and desperate, probably to his dying breath. Combined with John’s dedicated assault on every attempt so far Harold had made to keep himself compartmentalized, it would shortly become an unbearable distraction. Best to nip it in the bud. “If you have any objections, please remember you’re not entirely innocent in this situation.”

“No,” John said after a moment’s consideration. “I suppose I’m not.”

He was also still lying beside Harold, under his hand. From someone as physical as John, that was its own sort of declaration. “Very well then,” Harold said. “I will please myself. You may add your input, or leave this to my discretion, as you wish.”

John let out a short, strangled laugh. “You do that, Harold.”

There was a surreal quality to touching John through the silk of his shirt. In the back of his mind, Harold half felt that one of them ought to be bleeding, to justify the closeness. That might have been less painful than the awkwardness floating through Harold. Only a grim sense of determination kept him from fleeing the room.

That, and how very lovely John felt under his hands.

John’s muscles were firm, and his skin was warm. This much, Harold had already known, in theory if not in practice. It was as if touching him put that information into context: this was how strong John was, how alive. Harold found himself rejoicing in that fuller appreciation.

If John told him to stop now, Harold would be... quite upset. Quite.

John did not. He lay passively, accepting Harold’s attention, breath carefully even. He was mildly tense, a state that practically counted as relaxation for John. At least Harold took comfort in knowing that John didn’t perceive him as a threat.

For completeness' sake - and, admittedly, because he wanted to - he ran his hands lower, from John’s lower back to his hips to the back of his knees to his ankle. Then up again, across John’s shoulders and his arms.

Having done all this, Harold found himself itching to continue, to try  _more_. What he was aiming for, he had no idea: he trusted he would know when he found it, a feeling he recognized from chasing a single burnt input across a hardware board.

The resolution was the same as well, a familiar triumphant moment. Instead of a bit of microscopic wire, however, Harold found it when John heeded his request to turn over, when Harold smoothed a hand over John’s stomach, provoking an audible gasp.

“Harold.” John was looking up at him with wide eyes.

Harold yielded to instinct and touched John’s cheek briefly with his hand. “It’s all right.”

John’s eyelids fluttered shut. “Are you sure you don’t want me to,” he said, leaving the offer half-open.

Harold shut it down like a security breach. “I don’t. If I want anything, I will ask for it, and I will not be asking for sexual favors. Hush, Mr. Reese.”

Improbably, amazingly, John did.

~~

There was no number that day. There was nothing accomplished, in fact, yet it breezed by the way time did when Harold finally found a fascinating, worthwhile problem to make headway on.

Of course John was the most gorgeous sort of riddle - that was an integral part of who he was, an aura Harold had assumed at first to be a cheap put-on. Later he’d discovered how very wrong he was, of course. And now here John was, sprawled on the bed, the complicated layers of him unfurled like petals.

It was satisfying to note that to accomplish this, Harold did not need to remove a single stitch of clothing.

John had been stoic at first, then needy, shamelessly seeking more contact as Harold - for lack of a more dignified description - rubbed his belly. Then he’d gone languid, looking at Harold through half-lidded eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

Finally, he looked up at Harold, said, “My turn,” and tumbled him down onto the bed with no effort.

He’d done it carefully, and Harold trusted him to do so, so that no harm was done. Harold was also mostly assured that John had accepted that Harold did not intend to molest him, nor wanted to be molested himself. He kept a cautious eye on John, but said nothing and lay quietly.

In general, Harold was not fond of being touched, certainly not as much as John appeared to be. However, John didn’t attempt to reciprocate in kind. Instead, he put his hand on Harold’s hip, right over a painful knot that even the long soak hadn’t quite loosened, and dug.

It was excruciating for one moment, and then the blissful lack of pain hit Harold like a drug. Harold’s gasp shifted midway into a longer, lower sound. Harold might have been embarrassed had John not looked so inordinately pleased at the response. “What else hurts?” John asked.

Harold turned over promptly. “My lower back, if you would be so kind.”

“Yes, I see.” John sounded preoccupied, the way he did when putting something complicated together. Harold had always found John’s fine motor skills worthy of appreciation, and it was very agreeable to have them used on him in this way.

Just as Harold’s back was dipping from relaxation back into soreness, John moved back. Harold turned over and sat up, looking at him. John was sitting on his heels, hands at his sides, seeming at a loss.

Harold shifted and opened the bedside drawer. As he had remembered, there was a copy of  _Cryptonomicon_  in there. When he looked aside, he saw John was already in the midst of constructing a small mountain of pillows, just right for reclining against. Harold smiled and said, “Shall I read aloud?”

John made way for him, and laid his head in Harold’s lap once he’d settled. Harold turned pages with one hand, resting the other on the back of John’s neck.

~~

A number arrived well into the evening. Harold made his way back to the library as John left for more hands-on involvement. Harold found himself missing the warm presence at his side far more than he would have expected.

It made the next day easier. Harold had been aware that a decision would have to be made, whether to keep their brief interlude at the safehouse an abnormality or to change their routine to include it. The realization that he preferred the latter tipped his hand.

If John didn’t, let him make it known. Harold trusted both his ability to read him and John’s own bluntness to extricate them from a situation where John was displeased by the proceedings.

No such measures proved necessary, however.

That morning, Harold moved from his desk to the couch shortly before John made his way in, and patted the seat beside him in indication when John laid eyes upon him. John moved to sit beside him with gratifying quickness. Even more gratifying was his response when Harold lay hands on him, relaxing and leaning into the touch. At Harold’s coaxing, John lay his head in his lap.

“I’ve taken care of Ms. Rand’s hidden bank accounts,” Harold started, and was cut off by a short laugh from John. He moved Harold’s hand from where it lay petting John’s hair to his shoulder.

“Sorry,” John said. “Can’t concentrate when you’re doing that.”

“Really,” Harold said, pleased. He made note of it for later use. “As I was saying….”

~~

Ms. Rand tried to get the best of them by flirting with John. Harold couldn’t fault her taste, although he found her tactics slightly underhanded.

They turned her in, another number neatly resolved. Harold felt the familiar satisfaction of a good job done. John, however, seemed preoccupied.

Harold reflected that the recent shift in their relationship had some unexpected advantages as he gently tugged John’s hand, encouraging him to sit beside Harold and submit to being stroked.

While John followed obediently enough, he remained stiff against Harold, who sighed and retreated. That caused John to raise his head sharply and close the distance between them, murmuring, “Sorry, please go on.”

“You didn’t seem to be enjoying it,” Harold said quietly. “There’s really no need, if you’d rather not.”

John shook his head in frustration. “I  _was_  enjoying it, damn it.” He waved a hand. “Just… it’s not important. Never mind.”

Harold crossed his arms, patiently regarding John.

Finally John huffed out a breath. “I just kept wondering what you’d have done, if I’d’ve kissed her. That’s all.” He glared at Harold. “I told you it wasn’t important.”

Harold considered this. “I suppose I would have been upset,” he said, at length. “It bothers me considerably when you treat yourself as an object. Kissing someone you didn’t want to kiss, to advance a case, would seem to fall under that heading.”

John’s gaze was intent on him. “Just because of that?” His eyes narrowed. “What if I had wanted to kiss her, Harold? Let’s suppose she weren’t a thief and an attempted murderer, in that scenario.”

The question should not have come as a surprise. John was not one to pull his punches. “I want you to have the things you want,” Harold said, raising his hand when John would interrupt. “Let me finish. If you wanted to touch someone, in any way, for a bit of harmless fun, I wouldn’t begrudge you that. The specific nature of the touches in question is immaterial, to me.

"However.” He drew a breath. “I suspect that if you kissed someone, you would want to at least attempt to make them a part of your life, even the center of it. I believe I would resent that, though I’ll admit that I have no right. You deserve someone who would hold you above all others, and I believe you want that, too.”

John waited a moment, presumably to see if Harold was done. His face was inscrutable when he said, “And you, Harold? What do you want?”

The question pierced Harold, as did the answers that flashed through his mind in response:  _Stay. Be safe. Be **mine**._  He hesitated, trying to form a reply that would be honest, but not so – naked.

Before he could do it, John ran out of patience. “Harold. Do you want to kiss me?” Harold couldn’t read his expression at all.

“I don’t much enjoy kissing,” Harold admitted. “Or I should say, I haven’t so far. I usually dislike being touched, as well,” he captured John’s hand before he could retreat and squeezed it, “but I find it quite appealing, with you.”

He watched as John visibly steeled himself, stayed still as John pressed their lips together. It was a gentle touch, soft and brief, and there was nothing objectionable about it. On a whim, Harold kissed John on the cheek.

John’s smile was worth any number of indignities.

~~

Sleeping together, unexpectedly, was fast becoming Harold’s absolute favorite part of their new arrangement. He’d expected it to be uncomfortable at best and actively unpleasant at worst, but he’d forgotten that he’d always slept better with another heartbeat close by.

John was a good bed mate, even if he made outlandish accusations about stealing the blankets, which Harold most emphatically did not do. John didn’t snore, didn’t kick. He woke up in cold sweat fairly often, but on those occasions Harold merely had to hold him close and stroke his back until he’d calmed.

Harold had his own share of unpleasant dreams, and John seemed not to mind when he needed to be left alone afterwards, to get up and brew tea and code. John would wake up just briefly enough for Harold to whisper, “Go to sleep,” and then he would do just that, with an effortlessness that Harold envied.

He’d invariably be up two or three hours later, either exercising and beginning his own day or crowding Harold in a wordless appeal to come back to bed. That this proved effective rather than annoying was another pleasant surprise.

~~

Their number huddled under John's jacket and sniffled. "I keep thinking that maybe he had a point." Her voice was just above a whisper. Harold fiddled with the sound to compensate. 

"He was an asshole," John told her.

It seemed to Harold quite redundant to tell someone locked, wearing only a nightgown, outside her own home in New York winter, that the person doing the locking was an asshole.

But the number was shaking her head. "Yeah, I know, but." She shrugged one shoulder. "He put up with me, you know? Not a lot of guys who'd do that."

Harold felt his eyebrows climbing. Ms. Bryce was perfectly lovely - not young, but then he'd hardly be one to throw stones around that subject. She taught kindergarten, and volunteered with a pet rescue. 

"Sorry." She curled up in John's coat. "You don't want to hear all about my issues."

"Sure I do." John took her arm, perfectly charming as ever. "Let me get you a cup of coffee, huh?" He glanced down at her feet, clad in thin slippers. "And maybe some decent shoes." The last was muttered; Harold took it as direction. She seemed like a size 6 to him.

He got a bit lost in shoe shopping. Ms. Bryce had had a rough night; finding her something nice that would suit her tastes seemed like the least he could do. He was just leaving them outside the cafe for John when he realized the direction the conversation had taken.

"There's not a lot I wouldn't give up, for him," John said, low and intent. "I'm not sure there's anything, actually. And he never said anything about what he gave up for me."

Harold blinked once. Twice. He raised a hand to his earpiece, then abruptly changed his mind and walked inside.

John, of course, spotted him immediately. "Harold." His mouth bent itself in an approximation of a smile.

Harold smiled in reply, reflexive. He handed Ms. Bryce the shoes. "I hope they fit. Do you have a place to stay the night?"

She nodded. "Yeah, a friend's picking me up in--" Her phone rang, and she smiled ruefully. "Now. Thank you, both of you."

"Ms. Bryce, if I may have a word?"

She paused.

Harold hesitated, then took a small step closer. She didn't appear discomfited, to his relief. "I am something of a people watcher, by hobby and profession, and one thing I know is that everyone is lovable to someone; and if someone who professes to love you makes you feel that is not the case, and furthermore lays the fault on you, they are not worth your time."

Ms. Bryce stilled, then nodded quickly and turned away, faint tremors visible in the line of her shoulders as she made her exit.

"And apparently," Harold said with a sigh, "I managed to fail utterly when it comes to you. John, you have my sincerest apologies."

John gave him a stunned, uncomprehending look.

"I would appreciate it," Harold said, prodding further, "if you told me exactly what you think it is I gave up for your sake. You were talking about me, weren't you?" he added, frowning.

John snorted. "Who else would I be talking about?" His posture was still tense, however. 

"You can't possibly mean," Harold glanced around them, "sexual activity. I thought I made it perfectly clear--"

"Not that." Somehow, John managed to tense even further, like a coiled spring on the edge of either winding or breaking. "You said it yourself. Someone to put in the center of your life."

Now it was Harold's turn to stare. "John," he said, slowly. "If not you, who did you imagine I would put in that position?"

John made a frustrated noise. "I don't know. You could meet someone."

A horrible suspicion rose in Harold. "Were you going to try and set me up with Ms. Bryce?"

"You're the matchmaker," John said petulantly. And then, quietly, "No. I would have kept her far, far away from you." His eyes were clear and blue, gazing right at Harold. "You know I'm not a good man."

"On the contrary," Harold said immediately. "You're one of the best men I know." John turned away with a sneering twist to his mouth. "No," Harold-- snapped, the word leaving his mouth before he quite meant for it to exit. "I will not have you bad-mouthing the person I love."

He thought John looked stunned before, but now he apparently rendered him speechless. 

John's eyes were very wide, his mouth gaping for a moment. He shut it soon enough, but kept looking at Harold with an expression that could only be termed _adoring_.

Harold reached across the table for John's hand and laced their fingers together. "So is this quite settled?"

John nodded, jerkily, and followed him out.

They were halfway back to the current safe house when John said, "I do, too, you know." His lips compressed, as though he struggled with the words. "Love you." The last two were barely a whisper.

"Of course I know." Harold raised John's hand to his lips and kissed his scarred knuckles. "You're really not very subtle, Mr. Reese."

John's laugh rang along the empty street, rasping and joyous.


End file.
